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THE VILLAGE DISPENSARY.

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The hour is come, the Leech is in his chair,
Throw wide the doors, and bid the first come in,
It is Dispensary-day! the narrow hall
Is thronged, as was Bethesda's strand of yore,
With sufferers of every kind and ailment;
Young, old, lame, blind, female and male, all met,
Prescient of succour, brooding o'er their woes,
And conning how they best may paint their pains !
With skilful air and aspect sharp, the Leech
Takes

up pen, turns o'er his book, and studies.
The first approaches with an awkward bow,
Letter in hand of printed warranty,
Signed by Subscriber, setting forth name, age,
And each et cetera. “How now, Goodman Roger!
And is it you? Why, what ails you, old heart ?'
* Pains in the back, an' please you.' 'Is it so?
You have a family—a large one ? “Yes !

And used to labour?' 'Ay, from morn till night.' 'Fond of strong beer, too?' `Mainly-drink three quarts.' • Marry! I wonder not then at your pains; But take you this; an' it stir not your ribs, Why then there is no virtue left in rhubarb. Begone! and see me our next public day. Come — for the next.—Who's here? Eh ! damsel Alice, And not well yet?' 'No, Sir; my old complaints, Tremblings, heart-burnings, want of sleep at night, Failure of appetite, and loss of spirits.' ‘Turn round your face; why, ay, thou lookest pale; Hast thou a sweetheart?' 'La, Sir! ‘Nay, confess it.' • There's Harry—' Ay! he keeps your company, Does he not?' 'Yes.' Then marry, and be well! Eh! more? Come, mother, tell me your complaint; Illness, no doubt.' 'I've had the Poticar.' 'Ay, and

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grew

worse.' * He gave me store of drugs, And when my gold was gone- • He sent you here.' • Just so.' It is their customary wont;

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They deluge you with drugs to drain your purse;
They find you ailing, and they make you ill,
Then all their study is to keep you so;
Until
your

veins and stores be emptied out;
Bloodless your body,-penniless your pocket, —
Which wrought, they send you for our gratis aid,
And leave us to undo what they have done.
So will it ever be, while they have sufferance
To act the Leech's part, who are his servants.
They needs must “vend their drugs,” and make occasion
For their expenditure,— 'tis their only gain.
Why do not our grave lawgivers ordain
These traders to their place; their gallipots,
Their drugs, their philtres, and their pharmacy?
Nor let them traffic thus with life and health;
Marring their practice who could else mar them.
Begone! Take no inore physic, make good meals,
Keep yourself warm, live temperately; duly
Avoid the “Poticar, -then soon you'll want
No aid but what the cupboard can afford.
Shut to the doors, I 'll hear no more to day;

Throw physic to the dogs,-- for I am sick on't!'
Literary Magnet.

GORDALE.
These are thy fragments, thus in chaos strewn,
Magnificent though ruined world! nor power
Less than divine hath through the mountains hewn
The hideous chasm, or poised yon craggy tower,
O’erhanging, yet immoveable: whose brow
Far overhead bedims the noontide hour,
Making a sepulchre of all below.
An awe is on the place: a presence here
Incumbent broods, to which all creatures bow.
He comes! he comes! not riding on the sphere —
Not in the fire, the earthquake, or the wind —
But in the still small voice, the conscious fear,
The trembling hope, the deep transported mind :-
Such is His presence, in such temple shrined !

THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

It is currently believed in Scotland, and on the Borders, that he who has courage to rush upon a fairy festival, and snatch away the drinking-cup, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Eden-hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized, at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave. The fairy train vanished, crying aloud,

“ If that glass either break or fall,

Farewell the luck of Eden-hall !” From this prophecy the goblet took the name it bears—the Luck of Eden-hall.

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

On Eden's wild, romantic bowers

The summer moonbeams sweetly fall,
And tint with yellow light the towers,

The stately towers of Eden-hall.

There, lonely in the deepening night,

A lady at her lattice sits,
And trims her taper's wavering light,

And tunes her idle lute by fits.

But little can her idle lute

Beguile the weary moments now;
And little seems the lay to suit

Her wistful eye, and anxious brow:

For, as the chord her finger sweeps,

Ofttimes she checks her simple song,
To chide the forward chance that keeps

Lord Musgrave from her arms so long :

And listens, as the wind sweeps by,

His steed's familiar step to hear :-
“Peace, beating heart! 'twas but the cry

And foot-fall of the distant deer.”

с

In, lady, to thy bower ! fast

weep The chill dews on thy cheek so pale ; Thy che, ished hero lies asleep,

Asleep in distant Russendale !

The noon was sultry, long the chase,

And when the wild stag stood at bay, BURBEK reflected from its face

The purple lights of dying day.

Through many a dale must Musgrave hie,

Up many a hill his courser strain, · Ere he behold, with gladsome eye,

His verdant bowers and halls again.

But twilight deepens,—o'er the wolds

The yellow moonbeam rising plays, And now the haunted forest holds

The wanderer in its bosky maze.

No ready vassal rides in sight;

He blows his bugle, but the call Roused echo mocks; farewell, to-night,

The homefelt joys of Eden-hall !

His steed he to an alder ties,

His limbs he on the green-sward flings; And, tired and languid, to his eyes

Woos sorceress-Slumber's balmy wings.

A prayer, a sigh, in murmurs faint,

He whispers to the passing air ;The Ave to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his lady fair.

'T was well that in that Elfin wood

He breathed the supplicating charm, Which binds the Guardians of the good

To shield from all unearthly harm.

Scarce had the night's pale Lady staid

Her chariot o'er the accustomed oak, Than murmurs in the mystic shade

The slumberer from his trance awoke.

Stiff stood his courser's mane with dread,

His crouching greyhound whined with fear; And quaked the wild-fern 'round his head,

As though some passing ghost were near.

Yet calmly shone the moonshine pale

On glade and hillock, flower and tree; And sweet the gurgling nightingale

Poured forth her music, wild and free.

Sudden her notes fall hushed; and near

Flutes breathe, horns warble, bridles ring — And in gay cavalcade, appear

The Fairies round their Fairy King.

Twelve hundred Elfin knights and more

Were there, in silk and steel arrayed; And each a ruby helmet wore,

And each a diamond lance displayed.

And pursuivants with wands of gold,

And minstrels scarfed and laurelled fair, Heralds with blazoned flags unrolled,

And trumpet-tuning dwarfs were there.

Behind, twelve hundred ladies coy,

On milk-white steeds, brought up their Queen, Their kerchiefs of the crimson soy,

Their kirtles all of Lincoln-green.

Some wore, in fanciful costume,

A sapphire or a topaz crown ;
And some a hern's or peacock’s plume,

Which their own tercel-gents struck down:

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